If Marco had seemed, for an Italian, to be of a rather florid complexion he was so no longer. His cheeks were wan enough to make his immaculately shaven jaws look, by contrast, a cadaverous purple. There was a kind of scuffling noise behind Alleyn. He turned and saw the beautiful young man who had admitted him seated behind a table and making great play with papers.

‘I didn’t realize—’ Alleyn said.

‘My secretary. He does not speak English,’ Marco explained and added in Italian, ‘Alfredo, it might be as well for you to leave us.’ And still in Italian, to Alleyn: ‘That will be better, will it not?’

Alleyn looked blank. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said and spread his hands.

‘Ah, you do not speak our language?’

‘Alas!’

The young man said rapidly in Italian: ‘Padrone, is it trouble? It is—?’ and Marco cut him short. ‘It is nothing. You heard me. Leave us.’

When he had gone Alleyn said, ‘It won’t take long. The man I speak of is Mr Sebastian Mailer.’

A short pause and Marco said, ‘Indeed? You are, I must conclude, certain of your ground?’

‘Certain enough to bring you the information. Of course you will prefer to check with the Questore himself. I assure you, he will confirm what I’ve said.’

Marco inclined and made a deprecatory gesture. ‘But of course, of course. You have quite taken me aback, Mr Alleyn, but I am most grateful for this warning. I shall see that Mr Mailer’s appearances at La Gioconda are discontinued.’

‘Forgive me, but isn’t it rather unusual for La Gioconda to extend its hospitality to a tourist party?’

Marco said rapidly and smoothly, ‘A normal tourist party—a “package”—would be out of the question. A set meal and a fiasco of wine—with little flags on the table—unthinkable! But this arrangement, as you found, is entirely different. The guests order individually, à la carte, as at a normal dinner-party. The circumstance of the conto being settled by the host—even though he is a professional host—is of little significance. I confess that when this Mailer first approached me I would not entertain the proposal but then—he showed me his list. It was a most distinguished list. Lady Braceley alone—one of the most elegant of our clientèle. And Mr Barnaby Grant—a man of the greatest distinction.’

‘When did Mailer first approach you?’

‘I believe—about a week ago.’

‘So tonight was the first of these dinner-parties?’

‘And the last, I assure you, if what you tell me is true.’

‘You noticed, of course, that he did not appear?’

‘With some surprise. But his assistant, Giovanni Vecchi, is a courier of good standing. He informed us that his principal was unwell. Am I to understand—?’

‘He may be unwell, he has undoubtedly disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ The colour seeped back, unevenly, into Marco’s cheeks. ‘You mean—?’

‘Just that. Vanished.’